ound to turn up."

"But why should you be mixed up in father's troubles?" asked Rosalind
after a pause.

"Your father's troubles are yours; your troubles are--shall we say?--
Roger's; Roger's troubles are mine."

There was another long silence, during which Rosalind took up her
brushes and began work again on the picture, Mr Armstrong critically
looking on.

"Have you no troubles of your own, then, that you have so much room in
you for those of other people?" she said at last.

"I have had my share, perhaps. Your picture, with its wide expanse of
calm sea, was just reminding me of one of them."

"Tell me about it."

"It was years ago, when, before I was a singer in London-- You knew I
followed that honourable vocation once, don't you?"

"I have heard father speak of it. Why not?"

"No reason at all. But before that I worked at the equally honourable
profession of a common sailor on a ship between New York and Ceylon. At
that time I was about as wild and reckless as they make them, and
deluded myself into the foolish belief that I enjoyed it. How I had
come to that pass I needn't tell you. It wasn't all of a sudden, or
without the assistance of other people. I had a comrade on board--a man
who had once been a gentleman, but had come down in the world; who was
nearly as bad as I, but not quite; for he sometimes talked of his home
and his mother, and wished himself dead, which I never had the grace to
do."

"Are you making this all up for my benefit," asked Rosalind, "or is it
true?"

"The story would not be worth telling if it were not true," said Mr
Armstrong, screwing his glass into his eye and taking a fresh survey of
the picture. "One very hot summer we were becalmed off Colombo, and lay
for days with nothing to do but whistle for a wind and quarrel among
ourselves. My mate and I kept the peace for a couple of days, but then
we fell out like the rest. I forget what it was about--a trifle,
probably a word. We didn't fight on deck--it was too hot--but jumped
overboard and fought in the water. I remember, as I plunged, I caught
sight, a hundred yards away, of an ugly grey fin lying motionless on the
water, and knew it belonged to a shark. But I didn't care. Well, we
two fought in the water--partly in spite, partly to pass the time.
Suddenly I could see my opponent's swarthy face become livid. `Good
God!' he gasped; `a shark!' and quick as thought he caught me by the
shoulders and pushed me b